A shot rang out.
The Brute started, felt no pain, and turned in panic toward Méarana. No! Not her!
But the harper, too, was unhurt. The’ Loonie mob had frozen at the gunshot. Habituated the Preeshdad’ Loons might be to violence, but few there were who embraced it from the sharp end.
A voice boomed from the darkened alleyway on the left. “Throw down your weapons! You are surrounded!” And he was seconded by a voice from the right: “All men in place, Captain!”
The’ Loons looked to the blank rows of shuttered shops and tenements flanking them on either side of the lane. Did they see shadows moving into place? “The coffer riot cops?” “Damn mover regime…” “Where’d they come from?” Then someone in the middle of the mob hollered, “Let’s get out of here!” And with that cry, they broke and scattered down Tchilbebber Lane to the Beachfront Highway.
The Terran fell to his knees and began to kiss Donovan’s fingers and the hem of his tunic, calling him his savior and summoning blessings from the gods. The Brute nearly kicked him, but Donovan and the Fudir stopped him. Yeah, the Brute said bitterly, it’s “Brute, save us,” when you have it to do; but it’s “Brute, fall behind” when the drums stop rolling. He surrendered control before either Donovan or the Fudir had taken it back and the scarred man staggered. Méarana and the other Terran kept him upright, grabbing an arm apiece.
“That was close,” said Greystroke, dusting his hands and throwing down the bat he had taken from one of the gang members.
“They’re gone, Cu,” said O’Carroll, who stepped from the shadows on the right. “I followed them to the corner and they kept running. Are ye feelin’ none too well, Fudir?”
Greystroke stepped close to Donovan. “That was a fool play, Donovan. You could have gotten Méarana hurt! What possessed you to face down a lynch mob?”
The other Terran handed Donovan back his teaser and began to brush at and straighten Donovan’s clothing. The scarred man batted his hands away. “Call it a dislike of lynching,” he told the Hound. “Especially of Terrans.”
“This-man much arul,” the Terran said to Greystroke. “Save poor Billy Chins from akamiyam. From impiety and wickedness. He the shower of blessing, the gracious one. Me atangku him. Always his khitmugar.”
Donovan groaned. “Atangku? Is that the way it’s to be? Always a mooser, you?”
Greystroke had frowned in puzzlement before turning to Méarana. “It might be best if you take passage with us off planet.”
“We’d be glad to have you,” said Hugh.
“You’re following Bridget ban’s route,” the Hound said. “From here she went to…” He flipped open his pocket brain. “…to Dancing Vrouw. You are in luck.”
“I usually am,” said Donovan, “but the question is whether it’s good luck or bad.”
Hugh chuckled, and Greystroke spread his hands. “We can take you there. Rinty and I have business on Yubeq, and Dancing Vrouw is along the way.”
Donovan did not miss a beat. “Are you still looking to arrest me?”
Greystroke shook his head. “No.”
“Then, I guess you’re not the officious little prig you used to be.”
Greystroke smiled. “And you aren’t the wheedling, lying little scrambler you once were.”
“Good. Then we can both drink to the men we’ve become.” He and the Hound locked gazes.
Hugh sighed. “I don’t know,” he said, looking into the depths of the darkened lane. “I rather liked the lying little scrambler, myself.”
AN AISTEAR
There is a Terran custom called atangku. The term means something like “obey, be submissive,” with overtones of “be contained in another.” It means, in short, “to moose.” The practical form it takes is that saving another’s life is much like taking it, for the savior takes ownership of the life and the one saved devotes himself thereafter to paying rent. It is thus that Donovan has acquired, in the person of Billy Chins, his very own servant.
The scarred man is not pleased with this turn of events. What need has he of the burdens of ownership? Yet, when he attempts to dismiss Billy, the man falls to his knees on the bricks of Tchilbebber Lane. If the Beloved of Heaven will not have him, his life is worthless and his only recourse is to destroy it!
This strikes Little Hugh as a bit excessive; but Donovan gauges the promise meant, and a part of his mind entertains dismissal for no better reason than to exercise such power. To hold another man’s life in one’s hand is an intoxicating thing; and the temptation is correspondingly strong to take a good stiff drink. Donovan studies the soft pendulous lips, the basset eyes. A man of little use in a fight; but perhaps other talents lie buried.
“Lady Harp be go offworld,” he warns the man. “No kambak Harpaloon.”
“No like kambak here.” And Billy takes the sandals from his feet and claps the dust from their soles. “I go with thee, hutt, hutt. I serve the Child of Wonder. I cook. I wash your clothes. I unfasten your sandal straps. You never unplis of Billy Chins. You see.”
Donovan glances at Little Hugh, who is smiling into his hand. He sighs, knowing defeat from long acquaintance. “Okey-doke,” he tells Billy. “You-fella come by early-early Plough-and-Stars, all bungim wantaim. No kambak you forget hankie. Cart luggage b’long us, too. We travel jildy, this man’s ship.” And he indicates Greystroke, who conceals his delight over the additional passenger.
Méarana also assures the wretch. “No more’ Loons where we are going, Billy,” she says. “You’ll be safe with us.”
Outwardly, Greystroke’s vessel is as forgettable as the man himself. Her lines, her name, her colors, even her registration number are unremarkable.
Inwardly, it is a different story. All the flamboyance squeezed from Greystroke’s persona has been lavished there. Fluted and spiraled columns frame the doorways; murals swarm in the spandrels. Control knobs wear the heads of beasts. Colorful flowers blossom from clay pots and planters; and the odors of champa flower and kyara wood delight the nose.
After Méarana has seen her stateroom and admired the chatterchuff pillows—and the taffy and lace and the bathroom!—she shows all to Donovan as if she herself had decorated it. “Now, this,” she says in mild rebuke, “is first class!”
And Donovan looks it over and plumps a pillow with his fingers. “I have never seen a more agreeable cell.”
That they are aboard by something stronger than an invitation the harper cannot deny. Bars may be made of silk and chains of solid gold, as she had told Jimmy Barcelona. But if more than an invitation, it is less than an incarceration. They are not Greystroke’s prisoners. Not exactly.
Certainly, the Hound wishes to sup at the banquet of their knowledge, meager feast though it be. And why not? They fare on the same quest, and by all appearances she would get the better of the bargain. The Hound and his Pup cannot know less than she at this point.
Not for the first time, she wonders if the scarred man might not err in playing a lone hand. Some Hounds might weight self-interest above all; but surely not Greystroke and Little Hugh! Of the three that she had always suspected, they are the other two. But she had gone to Donovan because of who he was, or who she thought he might be, and what sort of fool consults a specialist only to ignore his advice?